


“Hold me?"

by nimrod262



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fanfic, Holding, Love, M/M, Nivanfield, One-off, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 22:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6772489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimrod262/pseuds/nimrod262
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a bear needs a hug sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“Hold me?"

**Author's Note:**

> This little short grew out in part from a chat with fellow Nivanfield author theosymphany, and from my own experiences as well.

 

Usually it was Chris who ended up holding Piers most nights in bed. Piers didn't suffer the cold very well, never had. Too many sniping ops where you couldn't move, couldn't generate enough body heat. Only the brain remaining active, calculating the windage, distance, checking the cover, scanning for the mark, telling the rest of his tired, aching muscles not to shiver. He was never sure whether his sniping skills gave rise to his ability to think ten steps ahead; or that that skill made him the best sniper in the BSAA. Both qualities had become so natural to him that their precise origin was now blurred. When he was on his own, Piers' idea of bliss was to have both the electric under-blanket and the top-blanket on. But true heaven for Piers was when Chris climbed into the bed and warmed it up first before he got in. Claire had always said the ol' bear had a built-in furnace; and it had been one of the first things Piers had noticed about his Captain all those years ago.  When he first met him and fell hopelessly in love.

So when Chris said to Piers "Hold me?" when he got into bed, Piers knew it wasn't because Chris was cold. Something was up, something was wrong. The slight frown on the rugged face, the downcast brown eyes; all signalled problems ahead. But the words . . . those two simple words . . . said it all. Chris didn't want a warming cuddle, or a moment of quiet foreplay before the act of making love. He wanted reassurance, friendship, support, confidence. He wanted, no he needed, to be loved. Like the little boy who'd fallen of his bike and grazed his knee.  Like the young man who'd lost both his parents.  Like the brother who'd held his sister tight as they stood together by the graveside.  Like the soldier who'd lost so many, many friends and comrades.

Piers knew by now that it was better not to ask for a reason. Early on in their relationship he had asked; when Chris had become silent, or moody. When, unaccountably, he'd burst into tears. He'd asked because he wanted to stop the pain, stop the hurt. And not just Chris'. It tore the heart out of Piers as well. To see his Captain bought low in Piers' eyes meant he hadn't done his job, hadn’t prevented the incoming, hadn’t watched his six. Now, he knew that it had been a naive expectation, that some things were not preventable, or even explicable. It was Chris' nature to 'suck it up’.  To keep a lid on his inner thoughts and emotions; least they suddenly rose up and overwhelmed him. Over time, as their partnership matured and strengthened, Piers had grown to realise this. You couldn't ask for explanations, not when they weren't even fully understood by the person suffering. Or, more likely, because they didn't want to talk about them. No, Piers had learnt to be supportive, not inquisitive. To be a carer, rather than a confessor. Chris would eventually explain if he chose to, though more often than not he didn't. Piers drew some comfort from the fact that such episodes became less frequent as their relationship developed, but they never completely went away.

So "Hold me?”, those two simple words, meant all of that and more.  A whole luggage-train of emotional baggage. And so that's exactly what Piers did when Chris asked, held him. But being Piers Nivans, he did it with a lot more thought and attention to detail than many would have done. When Chris held Piers, it was a very physical experience. His large arms would surround his partner protectively, his thick legs would entwine themselves around Piers' own. The broad chest and muscled abdomen would radiate and transfer their own inherent heat to Piers' slighter frame. It was an act of enveloping, of wrapping, the physical embodiment of the laws of physics, of thermal dynamics, of energy loss and conservation, of friction and radiation. But on the occasions when Piers reciprocated, it was a more cerebral exercise. It had to be of course, Piers' comparatively slim body couldn't compete with that of his lover's. It was all in the technique. Yes, Piers would put his arms around Chris, as far as they could reach! And he could wrap one of Chris' legs at a time with his own, but it hardly impacted the bear's physical state. No, it was the touch, the tactile nature of Piers's 'hold' that went far beyond the mere surface of his lover's body. It penetrated and soothed Chris' very soul. Piers didn't hold with a hand. It was his fingertips that caressed and softly trailed over Chris' scarred skin. Brushing, stroking, sometimes even teasing. They criss-crossed the rugged terrain underneath them, never staying long, but equally never missing a spot. Sometimes they wouldn't actually touch Chris' skin at all, but float through the brown hairs on his arms, his chest, his groin. Piers' toes too, seemed adept at moving lovingly along a thigh, a calf muscle, the buttocks. Chris never knew what part of his body would be aroused the next, what sensation would follow gloriously on from the last. And in that very act of anticipation, of expectation, those feelings of love and wonder, would also come forgetfulness, of a deadening of the pain and torment, an easing of the taught heart-strings. It was to Chris' chagrin that he rarely stayed awake long enough to thank Piers. The sniper could tell from the steady, regular breathing, the relaxation of the tension in the hard-muscled body, that his 'hold' was having the desired effect on his Captain. He didn't need the verbal thanks, or seek confirmation of a job well done. To see Chris at peace, content once more in himself, that was all that Piers ever wanted to witness. But sometimes, in the drowsy torpor that comes just before sleep, Chris would smile, the frown would disappear from that handsome face, and the sad brown eyes would suddenly lighten and sparkle.

"Thank you my love, for holding me. Please, don't ever let go."

 


End file.
